Ширли Мерфи - The Shattered Stone [calibre]

He stared. “What do you mean, so familiar?”

“They—it’s the way they look at me,” she said softly. “They—as if they’re thinking things.”

He roared. ‘That better be all they do, is look!” His laughter was raucous. “You can’t blame a man for looking—But if they do more than look . . .”

“One did once. He touched me.”

“ Which one?” His fury flared, frightening her. He was suddenly, passionately, jealous.

“I don’t remember which, I never look at their faces. I just walk behind them to that damnable cell . . . Couldn’t someone else take the food? Couldn’t just the guards take it? Why must a woman . . .”

“It’s not a man’s work; it’s demeaning for guards to carry food to slaves. It’s a privilege for you; it’s part of the rituals of Burgdeeth, you know that. And, my dear Tayba, it is also a sign that I trust you.” He took her chin, turned her face to him. “I can trust you, Tayba?”

She stared at him boldly. “If you could not, Venniver, what would you do?”

“If I found I couldn’t trust you, my dear Tayba, I’d lock you in the slave cell.”

She caught her breath; her eyes blazed with anger.

He burst out laughing. “I like you when you’re angry. I like to see fight in you. You’re a fiery, beautiful creature.” He stared at her as if he could never get enough of looking.

Later she said softly, “May I stop carrying food to the slaves?”

“Great Urdd! Yes, all right!”

*

It was some nights later that she stole the hidden key to Venniver’s books, lit a lamp, and seated herself boldly at his desk. She didn’t understand why she wanted suddenly to see what was written in those locked volumes, but she had hardly been able to wait until the sound of hooves died as Venniver and Theel rode out to hunt the stag. She had become, in the last days, obsessed with the books. Had watched him, while he thought she dozed over her wine, take the key from behind a tapestry, fit it into one of the locks, and quickly enter some accounts. She felt almost as if something unheeded inside her directed her to take up that secreted key.

She scanned dull pages of accounts, of crops and materials, until she came at last to a book marked, Edicts and Commandments of the Gods. She pulled the lamp closer.

Here were the laws that would rule Burgdeeth when the town was opened to craftsmen and their families come up from the coastal countries seeking a new way of life. Well, she thought, her eyes widening, they would find a new way of life all right. More than they ever planned.

Venniver had woven a whole religion for Burgdeeth to live by. Temple services, special prayers and festival days. Special taboos. Women could not touch a horse, except Landmaster’s wife. There were laws of contrition, laws against all kinds of sinning. But all couched in beautiful prayers and rituals. His writing was compelling. He was clever at shaping intricate ceremonies that would fascinate men: would soothe and entrap them, make them want to obey.

Only slowly would Venniver’s laws take shape. Only slowly would the religion unfold itself. But at last a generation of people carefully bred to his commandments would live in Burgdeeth. People who had made themselves slaves willingly, in the name of his religion. People who would bow before gods they thought demanded human sacrifice, before Deacons who would burn Seers, burn little children and even babies if they were born Seer, in alarming and compelling Temple rituals.

A religion of terrifying cruelty, couched in righteousness. A religion that made the birth of a Child of Ynell the mark of the whole town’s sinning. A religion, she thought, that would steal over men’s minds slowly, artfully, to hold them trapped in false beliefs. He painted with strong words. He was a leader few would resist, had a power that appalled and excited her.

She sat shivering, thinking of the rich web of commandments and ceremonies, then started suddenly and turned as if someone had spoken her name in the empty room, stood up and drew on her cloak, needing suddenly and desperately to be with Ram. She hurried out into the dark, empty corridor and along it to the storeroom to find a lantern lit, and Dlos bending over Ram. Tayba caught her breath, knelt beside him, shocked. He was so very white. He was awake but unaware of them.

“He woke screaming,” Dlos said. “Rose up in bed flailing against something, crying out.”

“What—what did he say?”

Dlos looked at Skeelie. The child’s eyes were huge and frightened. She said, “He thinks—he said HarThass would see him die first. Just that.” She shivered. “I don’t—I can’t . . .

Tayba put her arm around Skeelie, pulled Ram tight to them, trying to warm him. “We must help him. Something . . .” She turned to look at Skeelie. “A Seer! Could a Seer help him, Skeelie? Could . . .” She caught her breath at her own raging madness. “Could—Jerthon?” Her hands were trembling.

“Jerthon is helping him,” Skeelie said quietly. “Jerthon is . . .” She stared at Tayba, searching for something in her face. “You don’t—Jerthon, all our Seers, are holding against HarThass. They—it is not enough. HarThass—the powers are balanced. Only—I think only you can help now.”

“But I— I can’t . . .” She was almost dizzy, so faint. “What—what about Fawdref? Doesn’t Fawdref—”

“Fawdref, all of them, hold HarThass away. Even wolves need help,” Skeelie said patiently. “The bell—there is power in the bell itself. You—” she was crying. “You must take the bell to the mountain. There is magic in closeness. If the bell could be close, it would draw Fawdref and Ram together, close where your own power can strengthen the bond, not here where Ram is too sick to reach out. Jerthon—Jerthon waits to see if you will do this for Ram.”

“To see —what did he think I would do! What did he . . .” She rose, furious, snatched up her cloak, took the wolf bell from Skeelie in a whirl of temper; did not stop to wonder what Skeelie meant about her power. Ran away up through the gardens, out onto the plain in the night hoping Venniver’s hunt was not near, wishing she had a horse and not daring to go back. She stumbled over boulders, wrenched her leg, ran up the empty plain pulling her cloak close against the wind.

The night darkened as the moons dropped. Her sandals were torn and her foot bleeding. Anger, and fear for Ram, flayed her on like a beaten horse until she came at last to the first peaks.

She swallowed the fear that lay like gall in her throat, and held up the bell, thought of Fawdref in a desperate, tearing cry of silence.

*

In the slave cell Jerthon, Drudd, Runnon, Pol, and young Derin sat unmoving, their evening meal untouched, every breath concentrated on quelling HarThass, on lifting Ram, holding Ram safe. Drudd’s broad shoulders hugged the shadows beyond the flicking light of the candle. Little Derin, the only woman Seer among them, hunched small and nearly lost in darkness, her red hair pushed back under a knotted cloth. Jerthon scowled, feeling Tayba facing the mountain, seeing her distress and fear. You’d think—didn’t the girl—why did she deny the power in herself? Deny it now in Ram’s need when the two forces hung, evenly matched, with Ram’s life balanced between?

He felt Tayba move uncertainly toward the cliff. Why was she so hesitant? He reached out, came into her mind to force her, to push his own call for Fawdref into her. She must be made to cry out to the wolves, to use the power of the bell in Ram’s name. To command the wolves’ greater strength. He paused, lifting his hand, then dropped it in his lap. She was so stubborn. And why did she stir him so? Why did a woman whose selfish desires ruled her, who could think of little but her own passions, stir him like this? Her selfish needs were the only urgency she knew; and yet her hidden, unwanted power was so fine. Was she going to let the stuff of her mind reach out now to help Ram, or was she going to stand there like a strictured ewe, staring stupidly at the damned mountain?